


Take All That You See

by GallifreyisBurning



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Bullying, Coming Out, Disowned Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy Has Panic Attacks, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, H/D Sex Fair 2020, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Leaked Sex Photographs, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, M/M, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, Mutual Pining, Off-Screen Reference to Gore, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Supportive Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26433499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyisBurning/pseuds/GallifreyisBurning
Summary: Draco Malfoy has only two goals for his eighth year are Hogwarts: 1) stay as invisible as possible, and 2) get enough NEWTs to be accepted at a university abroad and get the hell out of the UK. Everything is going according to plan until he is unceremoniously outed by the Daily Prophet and subsequently disowned.Finding himself the unexpected focus of unwanted attention and harassment, he is suddenly dependent on the good will and protection of the last people he would have expected — Harry Potter and his gang of do-gooder Gryffindors (plus Luna Lovegood). With his world turned upside down, how will Draco make it through the rest of the year? And worse still, as he grows closer and closer to Harry, how will he get out with his heart intact?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 72
Kudos: 810
Collections: 2020 Harry/Draco Sex Fair





	Take All That You See

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt [#51](https://docs.google.com/document/d/12_5f6f0xUXhqtWfMlhXRyA8kDC3KGShN3oa_IOD12DY/edit#).
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta, Mx_Maneater, for their endless support and work on this! Thanks also to Pineau_noir for looking at my outline, assuring me that it was fine, and convincing me that sometimes tropes are tropes for a reason.
> 
> Title from Fleet Foxes “Helplessness Blues.” The lyrics, to me, perfectly encapsulate how Draco would be feeling as he rebuilt a life for himself after the war.
> 
> This work is a part of the 2020 H/D Sex Fair. Thank you to the mods for organizing!

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Keep your head down; stay to the periphery._

_Be aware of your surroundings; don’t let them see you._

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Five more months. It’s almost over._

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

Draco Malfoy had had two goals going into his eighth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. One, stay under the radar. Two, get enough NEWTs to be accepted into a university program abroad and get the fuck out of the UK. Out of Europe, if possible. Maybe to Australia. Hell, maybe to America. Once upon a time, the thought would have horrified him, but it now held a certain appeal, for much the same reason that it once appalled him: Americans couldn’t give less of a fuck about what happened in England.

Not unless it affected them directly, of course, but Voldemort’s grasp for power had never had a chance to spread overseas, thank Merlin. In fact, when it came down to it, he’d never even made it to the continent.

It would almost be funny if the whole thing hadn’t been so incredibly, devastatingly awful.

Despite what basically every inhabitant of Wizarding Britain thought, it had been years since Draco Malfoy had seen any appeal in following in the murderous footsteps of a deranged psychopath. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment that he had realized just how wrong he’d been to blindly believe everything his father taught him—both about blood purity and about the grandeur of a future under the Dark Lord’s reign. Maybe it had been when the red-eyed, slit-nosed creature—so obviously no longer human—had taken up residence in his home, bringing a hoard of self-important sycophants and hangers on to befoul the once-stately manor with corpses and blood stains. Maybe it had been when the Dark Mark had been seared into his skin, burning through his veins like poison and ice while a room full of masked murderers jeered and taunted that his inevitable failure would predicate his parents’ deaths. Or maybe it had been the first time he saw Nagini’s unhinged jaw and vicious teeth sever and swallow the leg of a body-bound Muggle who had still somehow—despite the spell freezing every inch of her body—managed to scream.

It turned out that a Muggle didn’t seem all that different than a Wizard, really, when you were watching them be eaten alive.

Just _when_ his heart had begun to change, however, was by-and-large irrelevant. It had been too late to get out without dooming himself and his family to a slow and painful death, and his sense of morality had been outweighed by his terrified sense of self preservation and his need to protect the ones he loved.

Even his father, who had gotten them all into this mess. In retrospect, Draco could not for the life of him understand how the man who had once been his idol had thought that following the Dark Lord for a second time was a good idea. He’d been a Death Eater during the first war, for Merlin’s sake; how could he _possibly_ not have known just how badly things could go for them? Setting aside Lucius’s near-pathological hatred of Muggles and Muggleborns, Draco would have thought that he would at least have cared more for the safety of his wife and son than he did for his ideology. But then, his father had always been an incredibly arrogant man.

Draco had admired that about him, once. That arrogance—that unshakeable certainty that he would get exactly what he wanted—had carried Lucius far in the Wizarding world. For a while, anyway.

Lucius was under house arrest at the foul, Dark magic-steeped manor now, awaiting his formal trial. He was almost certainly going to Azkaban. Draco would have liked to say that his father hadn’t been one of the worst of them—hadn’t been one of _those_ Death Eaters—but it would have been a lie. Lucius had abducted and tortured and murdered right along with the rest of them, at least until the Dark Lord had taken his wand. Draco was no longer under any illusions as to what kind of man his father was, although the truth of it still burned. He deserved Azkaban based on the acts that Draco had witnessed alone, and Draco knew it. He and his mother had only escaped the same fate due to the post-war magnanimity of one Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, who had shed light on their meager acts of defiance.

Potter had, irony of all ironies, given Draco a second chance at life. And Draco intended to take it—as far away from here as he could. So he walked the halls of Hogwarts like an inferi, pale and silent, speaking to no one and burying his head in schoolwork.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Keep your head down; stay to the periphery._

_Be aware of your surroundings; don’t let them see you._

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

His time living under the Dark Lord’s unforgiving gaze had, in a twisted way, prepared him well.

–––––

Draco had stayed at Hogwarts over his winter break, having no desire to set foot in Malfoy Manor ever again if he could help it. His mother had pleaded with him—or, as close as a Malfoy ever came to pleading—but for once, Draco couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d done what he needed to to save her life during the war, but he couldn’t stand the thought of being in that house, even for her. Even less so could he stomach the idea of facing his father.

The eighth years had rather a lot more freedom than the younger students, both because they were of age and because the professors seemed to agree that it wasn’t quite right to treat war veterans as children. As such, Draco hadn’t confined himself to the Hogwarts grounds while he’d had them largely to himself over the holiday. Instead, he’d found himself venturing into Muggle cities—not London, not yet, but Glasgow and Edinburgh and, once or twice, as far south as Manchester. He’d lost himself in crowds of strangers and observed a culture he’d always assumed must be barbaric. The fact that it was beautiful—full of art and music and life in a way that Draco had never even dreamed of in his sheltered world of tiny Wizarding districts—had been the final nail in the coffin of younger Draco’s delusions.

Muggles were so very different and yet so very much the same as Wizards, Draco had learned. He found himself by turns fascinated, furious, and terrified at the undermining of everything he’d thought he’d known. He had always assumed that without magic, Muggles’ lives must be backwards and toilsome. Wizards were a superior society, it was just a fact that he had always known. The war had humanized them for him, yes, but it hadn’t completely changed that particular belief. Now, he had to accept a new truth: the ways that Muggles had created to exist without magic were astonishing, and sometimes even surpassed the wizarding solutions to the same problems. In his explorations, Draco had discovered computers and telephones and movies and compact discs. He had also discovered entire districts full of men who shared his proclivities.

Although the Wizarding world was fairly ambivalent toward homosexuality on the whole, as long as one was circumspect (except, of course, the old families like his who valued heirs over happiness), there was nothing like what he found in the Muggle cities he visited. Clubs and bars full of men, dancing and sweating and flirting, happy and free. The Wizarding world was so small, so interconnected, that Draco could barely imagine the freedom and anonymity such places could offer. He’d never even dared to explore his attraction to men with a wizard; there was no chance it wouldn’t get back to his father. His father, who had been plotting potential marriage alliances since before Draco was out of nappies.

His father, who had destroyed their family name so utterly that such plans were now laughable.

For a while, Draco had spent his evenings in these places, seeking to forget who he was for just a bit—but the inevitable hangover and pit of regret in his stomach at half-remembered encounters with strange men whose faces he would never recognize in a crowd left him feeling worse than before, and he quickly abandoned them. Instead, he went to movie theaters and symphonies and museums during the day, learning whole new histories that he had never known existed, and then returned to Hogwarts alone to pick at a solitary meal before diving back into his NEWT revision.

–––––

The whispers began at breakfast.

It was the first week back after the holidays, and Draco was still adjusting to the chatter of the recently-returned students. The escalating sound of excited murmurs disconcerted him, but only insofar as he had grown accustomed to the silent echoing of the near-empty castle over the past month. It never occurred to him that the swelling wave of sound could have anything to do with him—he’d succeeded in staying invisible this long, and his guard was down. He hadn’t even bothered to be curious about whatever new gossip was seeping through the student body like a rising tide when the Howler came.

At first, Draco assumed that the ominous red envelope in the claws of the owl that landed abruptly before him must be for someone else. Professor McGonagall had set wards that blocked all mail from correspondents not expressly allowed by the students before the school year even began. Draco knew that this was almost certainly to protect Harry Potter and his fellow war heroes from sneakily delivered love potions and stacks of fan mail, but he was nevertheless grateful for how it protected him from the hateful messages and curses he would surely have been receiving otherwise. He had been avoiding the _Daily Prophet_ for the most part, but he knew well enough how most people felt about the fact that he did not currently reside in a drafty cell in Azkaban.

It wasn’t until he recognized the owl as belonging to his father that he felt a cold knot of dread form in his chest. His belated realization sealed his fate. The envelope was already smoking; he knew there was no way he would be able to escape the hall before it went off. Before he could even make up his mind to try, it burst open and the furious voice of Lucius Malfoy filled the hall.

 **“How _dare_ you disgrace yourself so publicly? You have dishonored your family and your legacy**— **fooling about in an alleyway like a common whore! You have ruined _any_ chance of a beneficial marital alliance. Your indiscretion has sealed our fate, ensuring the end of one of the oldest and most esteemed lineages in Britain. This...this _flaunting_ of such perversities is absolutely unforgivable.**

**“I will not allow my name to die so ignominiously. You are no longer my heir, and no longer a Malfoy. I would rather the line die with me than allow you to make a mockery of it. You are no longer welcome in this house.”**

With this final pronouncement, the envelope tore itself into shreds, which fell to the table in front of Draco’s plate. The hall, which had been so lively before, was now silent apart from a handful of shocked gasps. Draco stared in wide-eyed horror at the pile of red paper scraps, uncomprehending. As the conversation rose again, more loudly than before, he reached one hand out toward the detritus before pulling it back. It was shaking. _What was happening?_

“What?” He didn’t mean to say it, but the whispered word slipped unbidden from his lips. He didn’t understand. _He didn’t understand._

After a moment, a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ was pushed down the table until it rested in front of his shell-shocked face. Glancing over, Draco saw a seventh year Slytherin looking at him with the tiniest hint of pity. Looking back down at the paper, the pieces fell suddenly, shatteringly into place.

_“Draco’s Duplicitous Dalliance: Notorious Death Eater Heir’s Muggle Lover!”_

_By Rita Skeeter, Star Reporter_

The words of the article blurred as his eyes zeroed in on the grainy photo that accompanied the headline. It had obviously been taken from afar and enlarged for print, but the image was still horrifically unmistakable: Draco himself, on his knees in an alley, a Muggle man’s cock sliding in and out of his mouth in an ever-repeating loop.

No one bothered to hide their stares as he finally managed to get to his feet. Leaving the paper where it was, he turned to leave, his head full of nothing but white blankness and a vague ringing of blood through his veins. His eyes flickered blankly over the crowd as he went, registering only a sea of laughing, taunting, hateful eyes. Among them, only one pair stood out: green like summer and unreadable despite the intensity of the gaze. Tearing his eyes away from Potter’s, Draco’s steps toward the door picked up speed. By the time he had exited the hall, he was running.

–––––

There were a handful of places in and around Hogwarts this year where a person could go if they wished to be left alone. Although Draco had not had much cause to utilize them during the fall term—people mostly being content to leave him be in the quiet corners of the library, the back seats of classrooms, or the empty end of the Slytherin table that he usually inhabited—he’d taken the time to scout these potential sanctuaries out at the beginning of the year. Just in case. He was glad, now, that he had. Today was a day to disappear.

Some parts of the castle had not been fully reconstructed after the war. They were safe, but not complete, and therefore not currently used for classes. Luckily, a castle the size of Hogwarts that served only a few hundred students at a time had plenty of space to spare. Classrooms that hadn’t been needed in decades had been cleaned out and put to use, while areas that had been damaged more severely in the battle were being slowly returned to their former state by the quiet work of the Hogwarts house elves.

There was the corridor outside the Room of Hidden Things where an explosion had blown out a large chunk of the wall. The wall was back in place, but the Room itself had not yet reappeared (somewhat to Draco’s relief), and the wall still bore scorch marks. It was a corridor full of grief, but also full of empty classrooms that Draco could claim for himself when necessary. He didn’t mind it as much as he expected to. Crabbe’s death should have hurt more, he supposed, but they’d never been truly close. By the end of the war, he’d been so twisted by hate that he’d scared Draco almost as much as his father had. He would have been one of the ones to end up in Azkaban, Draco thought. Goyle hadn’t, but that was only by virtue of not actually having killed anyone. The same could not be said of Crabbe. Perhaps the fate he had suffered was the easier of the options available to him.

The astronomy tower was also generally empty during the daytime. Classes there only took place after nightfall, and the tower was perpetually cold and damp, especially in the winter. Again, it was a place that held particularly dark memories for Draco, but again, somehow, they didn’t keep him away. The reminder of Dumbledore, of the grace he had offered to Draco, was bittersweet. Draco hadn’t killed him; he hadn’t been able to. If he was honest with himself, he knew he never could have. Dumbledore had thought him worth saving. He’d told Draco that he was not a killer, and he’d been right. His offer of safety had been too late—such things were always a bit too late, it seemed—but Draco held the man’s faith that Draco could be redeemed close to his heart.

Outside, there were a few places he could escape to as well—the boat house, which was only used at the beginning of the year to awe the first years as they first approached the castle. A small niche to the west of the castle on the way down to the lake. To the southeast, a small garden on an outcropping of rock before the cliffs fell away, overgrown and seemingly forgotten over the years.

This last was where he fled as his name eddied through the corridors, leaving gossip and rumors in its wake. It was cold and damp, but his cloak was warm, and his warming charms were passable. He sat on one of the cracked stone benches and leaned against the cold castle wall, trying to breathe. Staring out across the dark waters of the lake, he tried to focus on nothing but the choppy waves moving across its surface as he counted his breaths.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

He didn’t allow himself to think. When the panic would start to rise ( _they all know, they’ve all seen, my father knows, I’ve been disowned, I’m alone now, I’m no one, what will I do?)_ , he would block it out, counting his breaths, counting the waves, counting the birds that swooped by until there was nothing but numbers and silence. He couldn’t let it break him. Not yet.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, but the sun was nearing the horizon by the time he realized that his fingers and toes were numb and his skin felt clammy. He wasn’t sure when he’d last renewed his warming charms. He _was_ sure that he had missed all of his classes, as well as lunch. Not that he was hungry. If anything, he still felt a bit queasy. Still, he needed to head inside before darkness fell—preferably before the end of the final class of the day so that he could avoid the crowded corridors.

Luck was on his side; the final bell seemed not to have rung yet when he made his way back through the heavy castle doors, as the halls were deserted. He quickly made his way back to the dungeons, shedding his cloak before hiding away in his four-poster bed in the seventh year boys’ dormitory and spelling the curtains shut. None of his male yearmates (and only Greengrass, of the girls) had returned to Hogwarts this year, so it hadn’t been deemed necessary for a separate eighth year room to be established. Draco was largely ignored by his new roommates, and he was glad of it.

Flopping back against his pillow—still damp and cold, but unwilling to take a shower on the off-chance that a classmate could corner him when they returned—Draco finally allowed himself to think through the most basic of plans for how to move forward. Overall, his goals had not changed: stay invisible, get his NEWTs, get out of the country. To get his NEWTs, he had to go to classes. He could only study so much on his own, and he had no friends to share notes with him, even if he was allowed to stay away. Which he wouldn’t be, he knew; there was no reason for the school to allow him special dispensations. He was lucky to be allowed here at all.

He could try to be a minute or two late to avoid the chatter at the beginning of classes as students settled in, but he wouldn’t be able to duck out early without attracting attention and the ire of his professors, so there wasn’t much point. He was going to be in the corridors with his fellow students. That much was inevitable. As long as it was crowded and he hurried, however, he should be able to avoid interacting with anyone.

Meals shouldn’t be much of a problem. He could get there early, grab a bit of portable food, and disappear to one of his hiding places as quickly as possible. During free periods, he would stick to those hidden corners as much as he could. After classes, he could go to one of the unused classrooms to complete his homework and revise for NEWTs, and then retreat to his dormitory just as curfew approached. It wasn’t ideal, and it wouldn’t keep him completely away from everyone, but it would limit his contact with them until the spectacle of this morning’s events had blown over.

With a plan formulated, Draco attempted to read ahead in his coursebooks, guessing at what had likely been covered in today’s classes so that he wouldn’t be completely lost going forward. He purposefully didn’t think about his disownment.

–––––

Draco woke early the next morning with a pit of dread in his stomach. _I can do this,_ he thought to himself, not believing it for a second. He _had_ to do this. There was no other choice. Getting ready as quickly as possible, he made his way up to the Great Hall, grabbing a few slices of toast before retreating as quickly as he could manage. It wasn’t crowded yet, but the halls weren’t deserted, either, and Draco could feel the stares that followed him as he slipped out the heavy oak doors and away to the niche to the west of the castle to eat his breakfast and wait until it was time to rush to class.

Classes this year were odd, as some of the students had attended Hogwarts last year but learned very little of value in the classes taught by Death Eaters, and the rest hadn’t been at school at all. Rather than automatically joining classes with their yearmates, therefore, the students (other than first years) had taken qualifying exams at the beginning of the year to determine if they were prepared to move forward or should take the courses that they would normally have attended the previous year. Because of this, some of Draco’s classes (those which had been taught by actual professors the previous year) contained a mix of seventh and eighth year students. Eighth years who had tested at NEWT level for a subject were allowed to take a free period or audit the class as review for their exams in the spring. Despite his attendance last year, Draco was ashamed to admit that he had passed none of the qualifying exams. Having a Dark Lord living in one’s home and the lives of oneself and one’s family constantly in danger was not, apparently, conducive to absorption of information.

His first class of the morning was, unfortunately, Potions. In the past, Draco had always enjoyed the subject, but the dungeon classroom now reminded him painfully of Professor Snape. Also, Slughorn seemed to have lost rather a lot of his obsequiousness over the course of the war, and was very obviously no longer interested in keeping his students in check during classes. His lectures were perfunctory at best. Draco wasn’t even sure why the man had bothered to return; he assumed it was as a favor to the Headmistress, who likely had not had much luck finding new professors to take up posts at a school that had recently served as a battlefield and morgue. At least he was bothering to teach the potions most likely to appear on the NEWTs.

Draco arrived at class a few minutes early in order to avoid the rush of students in the halls and secure the most unobtrusive seat that he could manage in a back corner of the classroom. He had hoped that it would mean that he would escape anyone’s notice, but of course he wasn’t so lucky. As the rest of the students filtered in, a large number of them looked at him—some with smirks of superiority (and oh, how odd it was to have an expression he had worn so frequently turned upon him), some with disgust, some with amusement, and, surprisingly, some with sympathy. Many of them whispered to their friends; Draco kept his head down and tried not to listen, but he couldn’t help but hear snippets here and there.

_“...disowned…”_

_“...humiliating…”_

_“...no more than he deserves…”_

And then, clearer than the others:

“Faggot.”

His face went red. He couldn’t place the voice right away, but he certainly recognized the tone. It was the same tone that he had used in the past as he spat “mudblood” at Muggleborns—derisive and disgusted. It was a tone that said he was less than human, that he was other, that he shouldn’t be here.

It was awful.

Even as he winced away from the violence of the word, however, another voice answered the other with a tone of irritation.

“Shut it, Walker,” came the oh-so-familiar voice of Harry Potter. Draco’s eyes shot up without his permission, but Potter wasn’t looking at him—his focus was on a brown-haired, freckled boy that Draco only vaguely recognized. His tie marked him as a Gryffindor, but Draco didn’t think the boy was in their year. Probably a seventh year, then?

“What do you care?” the boy asked, looking affronted. “He is. It’s disgusting. And anyway, he’s called us worse.”

Ah. A Muggleborn, then.

“Funnily enough, I don’t actually give a fuck,” Potter answered the boy calmly, crossing his arms across his chest.

“What don’t you give a fuck about?” asked the Girl Weasley, coming up beside Potter and peering at the boy, who was apparently called ‘Walker,’ curiously. Draco had been surprised that she’d tested into their level, given that she’d been leading a rebellion with Longbottom last year, but it wasn’t like he knew much about her other than that she was Potter’s girlfriend.

“Walker here decided it would be fun to fling around some slurs before class,” Potter told her casually. “Apparently he thinks people give a shit what he thinks of their sexual orientations.” He leaned over and whispered something in her ear.

To Draco’s surprise, Girl Weasley’s expression darkened. “Oh, really?” She raised a rather threatening eyebrow at the boy, who had the good sense to look a bit nervous. She stepped in closer to him, but Draco could still hear her dangerous whisper. “Harry might not hex you in the middle of class, but rest assured, I don’t have the same self restraint. Say it again and you’ll be vomiting slugs for a week.”

The Weasleys really liked that particular hex, Draco thought as he watched the exchange with wide eyes.

“Ginny, you know me better than that,” Harry said, glancing at her with a smirk as she stepped back. “Just because I fought a war doesn’t mean I’m going to start following school rules or anything.”

She grinned up at him. “Of course not. What was I thinking?” Harry grinned back at her. The pair moved toward the table next to Draco’s, and before Draco could look away, Potter had looked over at him, catching his eye. Not knowing what to do, and unable to pretend he hadn’t overheard the encounter, Draco gave Potter a small nod. Potter gave a barely perceptible nod back before going about setting up his station.

–––––

The next day, there was another article: _Malfoy No More? ‘I would rather the line die with me,” says patriarch._ It included a rehashing of Draco’s public assignation and a quote from an unnamed Hogwarts student retelling the tale of the Howler Draco had received, followed by a litany of the misdeeds of Malfoys Junior and Senior (as though anyone had forgotten, with his father’s trial pending).

There were, of course, more stares and whispers afterward. Every so often, he would catch another hissed slur from a student as they passed him. Some went so far as to slam into his shoulder as they went by, causing him to drop his things. The physical harassment, he could handle; at least he wasn’t being hexed or seriously injured. The invective, though, shook him more than he would have expected.

He’d known, of course, that the Muggle world was less accepting of homosexuals than the Wizarding one. Aside from pureblood families who used marriages as alliances and heirs as assurances of generational wealth, most of the Wizarding world minded their own business about such things as long as people were fairly discreet. Draco had just never had that sort of vitriol directed at him before. It _hurt._ After the prior year, he wouldn’t have thought that language could have that sort of effect on him. He thought back on his years of throwing slurs at half bloods and Muggleborns and cringed.

The one almost-bright point of the week was a letter from his mother, apologizing for his father’s behavior and assuring him that she loved him and he would always be her son, no matter what Lucius said. She didn’t explicitly mention his sexuality, nor did she offer any reassurances about convincing his father to change his mind. She did, however, tell him that she would be proud for him to adopt her maiden name, if he would have it, and say that she hoped she might visit him in Hogsmeade some weekend, sidestepping both his refusal to return to the Manor at Christmas and the fact that he would no longer be welcome there.

He had been in the forgotten garden again when the owl had arrived, apparently having managed to find him during breakfast hours despite his absence from the Great Hall, and he’d been very glad to be alone when he’d read it. He’d surprised himself by crying, which was not something he did frequently, and had not even done after his father’s Howler. He thought perhaps he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge just how alone he’d felt, knowing he was no longer welcome in his own family, after everything that had happened. He wrote her back almost immediately, telling her that he loved her, that he would be honored to take the Black family name, and that it would be lovely to meet her for tea sometime soon.

He continued to avoid meals, grabbing food to take with him when he could manage without being seen, and stuck to his plans to stay out of the way as much as possible. By the end of the week, the constant need for vigilance was beginning to wear him down. After their last class of the day on Friday—Muggle Studies, which was now compulsory for all but the Muggleborn students—Draco made his way up to the seventh floor to get some homework done and hopefully avoid the rest of the student body for as long as possible.

He’d intended to settle into one of the empty classrooms, but when he reached the empty hallway, he found himself settling onto the floor across from the empty wall where the Room of Hidden Things used to appear, before… well. Before. He took out his Arithmancy book, spreading it open across his bent knees. Numbers always helped him clear his mind. They took his full concentration, and therefore wouldn’t leave room in his thoughts for things like his father’s disapproval or his public humiliation.

The numbers and symbols and charts weren’t holding his attention today, however, much to his frustration. Instead, he consistently found himself staring at the scorch marks across the stones of the floor and wall beside him, thinking back once more on his near-brush with death, and his surreal rescue at the hands of the Savior himself. _Harry fucking Potter_ , he thought to himself wryly. Only Potter would risk his own life to save the lives of a pair of Death Eaters in the middle of a battle where everyone else was trying—quite deservedly, in retrospect—to kill them.

Draco and Potter had been at each other’s throats since their first day at school. Draco had tried to get him injured, expelled, or even killed more times than he could count. In return, Potter had attacked him, sicced his friends on him, and eventually almost murdered him in a bathroom. And yet, on the day of the final battle, with the bodies of students and teachers and allies and enemies strewn across the castle and grounds, Potter had saved his life. He still couldn’t understand _why._ The man was a complete enigma.

An enigma who, at this very moment, was materializing out of the air in front of him. Draco was so startled that he forgot to draw his wand. Instead, he stared in shock up at the sheepish-looking boy standing before him, permanently disheveled hair looking even messier than usual, presumably from wearing—

“I hate that fucking cloak,” Draco grumbled as he relaxed somewhat, although still giving the other boy a distrustful look. Why was he here? And how had he found him? It had been a long week, and Draco didn’t have the energy to handle an altercation with Potter, not right now. “What do you want, Potter?” he asked defensively. “Come to join a round of Kick the Queer? Because I assure you, I’m already down.”

Harry glared down at him, his awkwardness evidently overcome by indignation, and Draco’s shoulders drooped as he recalled the quarrel he’d witnessed earlier in the week. “Sorry,” he muttered. “How did you even find me?”

Harry flushed a bit at that, but ignored the question. “Can I sit down?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Draco answered honestly.

Potter sat down anyway, sliding down the wall next to Draco and pulling up his knees to mimic the other boy’s position. Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out an apple and handed it to the baffled blond.

“You weren’t at dinner,” he said. “You haven’t been at meals at all recently. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Draco let out an unamused laugh, toying with the apple. “Am I okay,” he repeatedly flatly.

Potter huffed. “Let me rephrase that. Can I help?”

Draco was silent for a few beats, trying to figure out how to respond to such an unlikely question. “Why do you even care?” he asked, finally.

“Because no one else seems to,” Potter responded honestly. Draco cringed, and Potter ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry, that was harsh, I just—“

“Of course no one cares,” Draco said, cutting him off. “Why the hell should they? It’s not like I haven’t doled out worse.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

Draco tipped his head back, leaning it against the wall and gazing up toward the ceiling, where cobwebs were being spun by industrious spiders taking advantage of the wing’s disuse. “Not to be rude,” he said, when the silence became too much for him, “but seriously, why the fuck are you here? I get that you’re a pathological hero, but we’re not friends. We’re _barely_ not enemies. And I’m a Death Eater, not some innocent, wronged maiden in distress.”

Potter shrugged. “They aren’t harassing you for being a Death Eater, though. They’re doing it because they think you’re gay.”

“Potter, there was a picture of me sucking a man off in the bloody papers. They don’t _think_ I’m gay.”

“Well I dunno, you could be bisexual, I didn’t want to assume.” Draco rolled his eyes. “I know what it’s like to have my personal life speculated on and splashed all over the papers,” Potter went on calmly ( _and since when had Potter responded_ calmly _to anything Draco had to say?_ ). “It’s bollocks. I guess I don’t want you to have to deal with it on your own.”

“That is deeply ironic,” Draco told him, and Harry chuckled.

“What, because you were the one spreading half the rumors about me to the press in the first place? Or because you did your best to make sure the rest of the school hated me whenever you had a chance?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “Hermione’s dealt with it too, you know. She spent a good chunk of fourth year being called—what did Ron call it? A ‘scarlet woman’?—by the papers just because she was friends with me and dated Krum. She knows I planned to come talk to you today. She agrees with me that it’s not okay for them to treat you like this.”

They sat in silence while Draco absorbed this. Finally, he couldn’t keep himself from asking, “Don’t you hate me for it?”

Potter sighed. “There are a lot of things I could hate you for, Malfoy, but spreading rumors and gossiping to the press aren’t very far up on the list. And the worst you did still didn’t come close to the worst I faced last year. I can’t be bothered to hate you after everything that’s happened, honestly.”

Draco cringed. “Don’t call me that.”

“What?” asked Potter, looking confused.

“Malfoy. It’s not my name. Not anymore.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” A pause. “Err, what should I call you then?” Draco gave him a disbelieving look, and Potter flushed. “I can’t call you _Draco!_ That’s just… fucking _weird.”_

Draco surprised himself by laughing. “Yes, well, I’d settle for _Your Highness_ , but I don’t think you’d go for it.” He sobered. “I did worse than tell tales on you to the press, though, Potter.

A shrug. “Yeah, you did. But you didn’t kill anyone.” Draco opened his mouth to object, but Potter stopped him. “I know you tried, but you were pretty shit at it. And it was a war. We all did horrible things.”

Draco scoffed. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Killing that snake-faced bastard doesn’t count, Golden Boy.”

“I’m not talking about that.” Draco looked over, curious, and Potter looked away. “I used Unforgivables. More that once. I _Imperiused_ people; I used the _Cruciatus_ curse. And I…” he turned back and met Draco’s gaze determinedly. “Well, I got a lot closer to killing you than you did to killing anyone else.”

Draco searched his face and could see the regret in his eyes. “I was trying to _Crucio_ you,” he pointed out.

“And I didn’t know what that spell I used would do. Doesn’t make it okay. And anyway, I told you, I _Crucioed_ people as well.”

“I’m sure there were good, Gryffindor, world-saving reasons for it.”

Potter wrinkled his nose. “Not exactly? The first time was because Bellatrix killed my godfather, and I wanted her to hurt as badly as I did.” He glanced sideways at Draco, and Draco found himself cringing again at the reminder of his aunt’s crimes… as well as at his father’s complicity, and Draco’s behavior after his father and his cronies had been sent to Azkaban for the surrounding events. He had been so full of indignation and rage, at the time, but he had learned the full story of that night from Luna Lovegood, of all people, when she was imprisoned in his family’s cellar.

“I’m sorry for… I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly.

Potter cleared his throat and looked away. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said, although it was obvious that the thought of that night still caused him an immense amount of pain. “Anyway. The other time I used _Crucio_ … well, that time, I was just annoyed, to be honest.”

Draco was shocked out of the guilt that was beginning to overwhelm his thoughts. “You… _Crucioed_ someone because you were _annoyed_?” he asked, disbelieving.

“Sort of? One of the Carrows spit at Professor McGonagall before the battle really started. I wasn’t particularly pleased with him.”

“Salazar,” Draco breathed. “That’s… actually pretty fucked up, Potter.”

“Yup.”

“Wow.”

“Yup.”

“I feel oddly better now.”

Potter laughed in earnest this time. They sat in silence together for a while more, but it was companionable this time, rather than awkward. And wasn’t that surreal on a whole new level? Absentmindedly, Draco bit into the apple he was still holding, chewing contemplatively. Eventually, with a groan, Potter got up, stretching languorously before looking down at Draco.

“Err, Mal— I mean, Draco? Merlin, that’s weird. Look. Do you want to eat breakfast with us tomorrow? Me and my friends?”

Draco stared up at him in shock. “Potter, not that this hasn’t been… oddly alright… but what the fuck?”

“If I have to call you Draco, you have to call me Harry,” Potter replied, rather than answering the (admittedly not entirely coherent) question.

“Harr— gods, really?” Potter— _Harry—_ smirked. “Ugh, fine. _Harry._ Why on earth would you want me to sit with you? Why would I _want_ to sit with you?!”

Harry shrugged. “I’m sick of people being arseholes. If you eat with us, they can’t be arseholes without me seeing them—which people are hilariously uncomfortable with, now that they think I’m some big hero. And you don’t have to only eat whatever you can grab before anyone notices you or give them the satisfaction of hiding from them.”

Draco considered this for a moment, but he already knew that he was going to say yes—he was sick of toast, and he would kill to have some proper tea with his breakfast. “Fine. But if it all goes to hell, it’s on you.”

Harry grinned. “Fair enough. See you, M— Draco. Fuck, that’s going to take awhile.” With that, he swung his invisibility cloak over his head and, Draco assumed from the sound of trainers squeaking against stone, retreated. Draco shook his head in disbelief. That had to have been one of the most surreal conversations he’d had in his entire life.

–––––

Draco strongly considered pretending that the breakfast invitation hadn’t happened when he woke up the next morning. On the one hand, he really was very sick of toast. On the other, he was reasonably sure that having breakfast with a load of Gryffindors whom he had bullied for years and whom he or his father had occasionally tried to murder (and most of whom had punched or hexed him at least once) would be one of the most awkward experiences of his life. Eventually, he decided he would suck it up and go, both for a chance at proper food and because he had a sneaking suspicion that Potter— _Harry,_ he reminded himself—would utilize his uncanny ability to find Draco at any given moment to track him down and force him to go anyway. It was at least slightly less humiliating to attend of his own accord.

When he walked into the Great Hall, however, he found himself almost paralyzed with fear. It was already filling up with students, and although he didn’t see anyone looking at him straight away, he could _feel_ eyes on him. Just as he was deciding to back out of the room and sprint someplace that no one could find him, however, Harry saw him standing there and got up from the Gryffindor table. He sauntered over to Draco and greeted him like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Morning, Draco! We saved you a seat.”

Draco blanched, but took a deep breath and followed him back to the table. Harry had apparently been breakfasting with Granger, Weasley, Girl Weasley, and, oddly, Luna Lovegood. Draco nodded awkwardly at them as he slid into the seat next to Harry, trying not to look as nauseated as he felt. The two Weasleys nodded back, looking wary but, strangely, not ready to attack. Granger looked determined. Lovegood… well, she never reacted as one would expect a person to, so he supposed her complete acceptance of the situation shouldn’t have been a surprise. “Good morning, Draco!” she greeted him cheerily.

“Lovegood,” he acknowledged. “Aren’t… sorry, but aren’t you a Ravenclaw?”

“Hmm. I don’t think that one’s house defines a person, really, do you?”

“I… suppose not,” Draco acceded uncomfortably.

“Good morning... Draco,” came another voice, and Granger was looking straight at him, her gaze not challenging exactly, but something akin to it, he supposed.

“Good morning, Granger,” he answered, trying not to let his voice shake audibly. Of everyone sitting here, he knew that she had the most cause to hate him of anyone.

“Hermione,” she said, holding his gaze. “And you should call the rest of us by our given names, as well.”

“Hermione,” he repeated, and she gave a satisfied nod.

“I told them you didn’t want to be called Malfoy anymore,” Harry whispered to him. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Yes. Thank you,” Draco answered under his breath. He was oddly touched by the gesture. He took a deep breath and raised his voice slightly, addressing the whole group. “Thank you for allowing me to join you,” he said formally. “I’ve never given you any reason to be kind to me, and I… very much appreciate it.” His companions remained expectantly quiet, so he went on, awkwardly trying to fill the silence (and, he supposed, say some things that he probably ought to have months ago). “I owe you all many apologies, but I honestly don’t really know where to start, so just… please know that I am very sorry for all that I put you through, and for what I was a part of. I wish I could undo it, but I can’t, and...I’m sorry.” He trailed off, not sure what else there was to say, and was surprised to hear Weasley, of all people, respond first.

“I won’t say you haven’t been a right git to us all, because you have. And it’s not okay. But the way people are acting right now doesn’t really have anything to do with that, so if you’re not going to be a bigoted arse to us all, I reckon it’s fine if you hang around.”

Draco grimaced. “I’ve learned my lesson about bigotry, I assure you.”

“S’pose you have. For what it’s worth, your dad’s a real bastard for doing what he did.”

Draco huffed a wry laugh at that. “It was a bit hypocritical of him, wasn’t it? Saying I’m the one who disgraced the family name when he’s the one who willingly sided with a psychopath and is probably going to be in Azkaban for the rest of his life.”

“It’s bullshit,” Girl Weasley chimed in from over by Luna, speaking up for the first time. “There’s nothing wrong with being gay, and disowning you for _that_ after everything? Dick move.” Something about her tone broke the ice, and a smattering of laughter went around the group.

“Indeed,” Draco agreed, and thought to himself that he should probably start thinking of her as Ginny if she was going to take his side on this. One shouldn’t alienate one’s allies by holding to old prejudices, even if they were dating Harry Potter and therefore showing appalling taste in men. He found himself continuing to chat with the Weasleys while other conversations picked up around the rest of the group. Hermione and Harry had begun discussing something about their study schedule, and Luna seemed to be doodling on a spare bit of parchment while she absentmindedly nibbled at a scone. “So, I take it your family isn’t quite so traditional about passing on the family name, then?”

Weasley—Ron—snorted. “There’s plenty of Weasleys to pass on the name if you care about that sort of thing,” he answered. Draco tried not to smirk and held his tongue. He knew better than to make jokes about the Weasleys when they were some of the only people being decent to him at the moment.

“Our brother Charlie is gay, and none of us give a shit,” Ginny interjected.

Draco’s eyebrows raised. “The dragontamer?” he asked with interest.

Ginny looked like she couldn’t decide whether to be amused or fiercely protective. “Yes, and don’t you even think about it. I’m alright with you sitting here, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let you anywhere near my brother.”

Draco gave a theatrical scoff. “As if I’d date a ginger.”

“Oi, watch it,” said Ron. Still, he didn’t seem to actually be mad, Draco thought with relief. Then, Harry mentioned something about Quidditch that quickly diverted Ron and Ginny’s attention, and Draco let himself fall quiet, concentrating on his tea and the first plate of real food he’d eaten in a week. He didn’t think that bacon had ever smelled so heavenly before. He didn’t speak much for the rest of the meal, but it wasn’t nearly as awkward as he’d expected it to be. When Harry invited him to join them for lunch, as well, and no one objected, he found himself gratefully accepting the offer.

–––––

From there, things seemed to spiral a bit out of Draco’s control. First, he was eating his meals with Harry and his friends. The group varied, and he found himself making many, many apologies, but oddly, everyone seemed to be sort of… fine? For whatever reason, most of them seemed to take the combination of his insistence on keeping his head down in the fall term, his acceptance by Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys, and the fact that he’d been disowned as proof enough that he wasn’t the same bully that he used to be. Interestingly, Luna and Dean Thomas also seemed to sway things in his favor.

“He was very kind to us when we were at his home,” he heard Luna telling Neville Longbottom dreamily one day. “He brought us food, and sometimes he’d stay with us for hours. I suspect he was just as trapped as we were, really.” Draco had had to go find somewhere to hyperventilate by himself for a while after that; he had done his best for them, it was true, but mostly he’d been hiding. The things that had happened in that house… he still had nightmares almost every night. Those held in the dungeons had been some of the luckier ones. Most people that were brought to the manor during the war had never made it that far.

He had talked to her sometimes, to distract them both, and Dean hadn’t joined in but he had sat nearby and listened, occasionally. Draco still didn’t know why the boy had been brought to the manor and hadn’t been killed, to be honest. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He knew better than to ask.

Dean (along with Seamus Finnigan, whom he was almost never seen apart from these days) had not joined their lunch group for the first few days that Draco was present, and to be honest, Draco hadn’t expected him to. Luna was one thing; the girl was forgiving and perceptive to an, at times, uncomfortable degree. Dean, however, had no reason to think the best of Draco. It was surprising and unnerving to the Slytherin, therefore, when Dean pulled him aside one day as everyone was settling in for breakfast.

“Could we talk for a minute, Malfoy?”

“Draco, please,” he answered, trying to sound calm despite his dread, “and yes, of course.”

Dean walked toward the doors, and Draco followed, feeling apprehensive. He was led down the corridor a bit, in the opposite direction from the dormitories and out of the way of any straggling students. When Dean stopped and turned, his face impassive, Draco tried to keep his breathing steady and reassure himself that a friend of Harry’s was unlikely to attack him so boldly, considering how many people had seen them depart together. Still, that wouldn’t prevent a conversation full of accusations that he would not be able to deny his complicity in or extricate himself from.

“I didn’t ask you out here to yell at you,” Dean assured; apparently, Draco’s fear was much more visible on his face than he would have liked. “I just wanted to talk.” He crossed his arms across his chest and looked up at the ceiling, as though bracing himself for something unpleasant. Finally, after a few uncomfortable moments of silence, he let out a breath and looked back down, meeting Draco’s gaze. “I don’t like you,” he said, and Draco grimaced but didn’t interrupt, “but I don’t hold you responsible for what happened to me during the war.”

“...You don’t?” Draco asked, confused.

“No. It’s like Luna said; you were just as trapped there as we were. I know if you’d tried to do more, Voldemort probably would have killed you. Maybe your parents, too, just because he could. We couldn’t see what was going on upstairs, but we could hear it. And I heard the things you talked about with Luna. I know you did the best for us that you could.”

Draco bit his lip and looked away. “I should have done more,” he said.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t think it would have done any good, to be honest. Even Snape wasn’t able to help at that point, and he was supposedly on our side the whole time.” He shook his head. “Anyway, that’s not really what I wanted to talk to you about. Like I said, I don’t like you, but it’s not because of the cellar. It’s because of what you were like at school before this year. The shit that came out of your mouth… I know you don’t have much experience with the Muggle world—”

“Understatement,” Draco muttered.

“—But there are types of bigotry there that don’t really happen in the Wizarding world, or at least not as much or for different reasons. Homophobia, as you’ve seen, but also racism. Treating people differently because of their skin color,” he clarified when Draco looked confused.

“Wait, really?” Draco was taken aback. “What an odd thing to care about.”

Dean gave him a look. “No stranger than blood purity,” he pointed out, and Draco looked down, chastened. “It’s the same thing, really. Treating people differently because of who they were born. So people like Hermione and me, we’ve dealt with having slurs flung at us our whole lives. To come into the Wizarding world, this literally magical place that was so exciting and so full of possibilities, and then to _immediately_ be dehumanized again for something else we couldn’t control? I can’t describe how much it hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered, still staring at the ground.

“So you’ve said,” Dean replied, “but it’s going to take a while for me to believe it. I think that goes for a lot of us. It’s going to take more than just not using hateful language; you’re going to have to really show us that you’ve changed and that you’re trying to be better. You can’t just erase seven years of hate by saying you’re sorry.”

“I know.” Draco’s whisper was almost inaudible.

“Okay. Good.” Draco glanced back up hesitantly to see Dean looking at him, conflicted emotions flitting over his face.

“I also wanted to tell you that I understand what you’re going through with the homophobic bullshit,” he finally said. “When Seamus and I got together—”

“You and Finnigan are a couple?!” Draco asked, shocked.

Dean gave a sad laugh. “Yeah, well. We are, but we aren’t super open about it to people other than our friends. But what I was saying was, when we got together and I came out to my family as bisexual, some of them didn’t take it very well. I got called some pretty awful things. I’m very aware of how shitty it is to be on the receiving end of what you have been recently. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, and even though it will probably be a while before I’m willing to trust you, I’m on your side on this one.”

Taken aback by the shift in tone, Draco searched Dean’s eyes, but didn’t see anything insincere there. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s more than I deserve. And, I know it’s not worth much, but if you and Finnigan ever decide that you’d like to be more open about your relationship, I’ll support you as best I can.”

“I appreciate that,” Dean answered, and although his voice still wasn’t anything close to warm, he sounded like he meant it. He turned as though to walk away, but Draco stopped him.

“I really am trying to do better,” he said. “I don’t blame you for not believing it yet, but I’m doing my best. I’m trying to learn. I don’t have much influence anymore—” Dean snorted at this “—but I’ll still do whatever I can.”

Dean nodded. “Alright,” he said, and Draco supposed that was the best that he was going to get.

The uncomfortable conversation with Dean seemed to have broken down the final barrier between Draco and Harry’s friends, and their shared meals grew even more diverse. Harry and his friends also began sitting near—and occasionally with—him in classes—forming a sort of buffer from the handful of students who were still hassling him. Usually, someone walked with him from one class to the next, making small talk about lessons as a not-very-subtle cover for the fact that they were deterring the harassment he’d been enduring in the halls. He was also invited to sit with them in the library to study, meaning he no longer had to hide in secluded corners.

One day, Draco realized that he—the former Slytherin prince, who had fought on the opposite side of a war from them—had somehow become the ward of a group of war heroes. It was very, very strange, and often uncomfortable, but also a relief in so many ways that he never knew quite what to feel.

Surprisingly and yet unsurprisingly, once he got more comfortable speaking to the group of friends, Draco found himself in conversation with Harry more often than not. The pair had rather a lot in common—which, in retrospect, probably contributed to how much they had once despised each other. They were both extremely stubborn, fiercely competitive, and emotionally volatile. However, they were also both curious, driven, and sarcastic (the last of which was much more fun now that they were directing it at each other with humor rather than malice).

It took Draco a bit to feel comfortable resuming their previous dynamic in a harmless rather than hurtful way, unsure if his teasing would be taken in the spirit it was intended. Soon, though, he found himself the beneficiary of one of Harry’s most notable traits: his exceptional capacity for forgiveness. In the past, Draco had often sneered at how quickly Harry had renewed his friendships after fights; the idea of giving up leverage over a peer so easily had struck him as foolish and naive. Now, however, he was incredibly appreciative of how easily Harry was able to let bygones be.

Within two weeks of Draco’s odd adoption by the group of friends, he and Harry had developed a teasing rapport that fired Draco up just as much as their past rivalry had, but without the sour aftertaste. It was soon clear that the pair had become _friends._ It was bittersweet, to think of how different their past could have been had Draco not been so blind to the faults of his family and their beliefs, but he couldn’t help but be grateful for what they had now. Talking and bantering with Harry made him feel more alive—more himself—than he had since the war had ended. Perhaps even since the Dark Lord had taken up residence at his house.

It was both welcome and frightening. They had always been drawn to one another, but when the jealousy and bitterness underlying Draco’s past actions were washed away, he was still left with an intense _awareness_ of Harry. He still always knew just where the other boy was. He still found himself watching him absentmindedly. He was still overly conscious of his messy hair, his infectious smile, his worn clothing. When he could no longer hide behind derision, he had to admit his _attraction_ to how comfortable Harry seemed in his own skin. Even more so since the end of the war; Harry seemed to have settled into himself now that he wasn’t the sole hope of the entire Wizarding world. Still, Harry was both straight and taken, so Draco did his best to push that attraction to the back of his mind. This unanticipated friendship was more than he could have ever asked for.

It wasn’t all banter, either. Although Harry seemed generally content, in his more vulnerable moments, Draco could see that he was just as scarred by the war as Draco was, if in different ways. Unexpectedly, Draco seemed to be one of the few people he was willing to open up to about it.

Although it was no longer necessary for him to hide there, after their first conversation outside the Room of Requirement (as Harry and his friends called it), the pair took to meeting there every so often when one of them was having a particularly hard time. When Draco had asked why Harry wanted to talk to him, of all people, about his experiences during and after the war, Harry had had to consider for a bit before answering.

“It’s different, with you,” he had finally said. “I can’t bear the rest of them seeing me be less than okay. I’m so lucky to still be here when so many people aren’t, and so many of them lost so much because I couldn’t end it sooner, or because I made the wrong choices. It doesn’t seem right to ask them to listen. You… you know what it’s like to carry that guilt. And you don’t expect me to be the perfect hero; you never did. You were a dick about it, sure, but you always understood that I wasn’t anything special just because of some stupid prophecy. I don’t worry that I’m disappointing you.” His vivid green gaze had been earnest when it met Draco’s. “Does that make sense?”

And it did. Although Draco thought Harry took on far more blame than he should have for the people who had died during the war, he understood the constant guilt of “what if”s—the omnipresent belief that if he had only done _more_ he could have changed things. It didn’t matter how many times other people told you that it wasn’t your fault; it would always feel like it was.

There were other similarities, too. Together, they came to the realization that in many ways, their parts in the war were mirror images of each other’s. They had both been raised (although for Harry, only since he was eleven) with an unwavering understanding of what was right, albeit in completely contradictory ways. They had both been manipulated by powerful men into taking on responsibilities far greater than should have been expected for people of their age. They had both, Harry had quietly admitted one evening when he was looking particularly tired and sad, been given tasks that they were not expected to survive.

Harry wasn’t the only person he grew closer to over time, either. Hermione seemed to be determined to set an example of rising above past grievances and forging connections between the houses. It wasn’t only Draco, of course, because Hermione Granger never did anything by halves. She was apparently working with McGonagall to brainstorm various ways to integrate the disparate houses and break down old rivalries, as well as preventing new ones. She thankfully did not try to drag Draco into these efforts, likely understanding that the last thing he needed right now was to be put in the spotlight. However, she did make a point to study with him, a fact which Draco found himself immensely grateful for.

Before his sixth year, Draco had always been one of the top students in their class, but he had fallen behind during the unceasing terror of the war and his role in it. Hermione had not only excelled at her sixth year courses, she had somehow managed to keep up with her studies while on the run with Harry and Ron, and had tested out of almost all of her required classes (and been extremely upset that she hadn’t managed in Potions, despite the fact that it had obviously been impossible for her to practice her practical skills whilst living in a tent). She was still auditing all of the classes she intended to sit the NEWTs for, and was more than happy to work with Draco as he studied to test her own knowledge.

It had quickly become clear to Draco, however, why—despite all the time they spent with her—Ron and Harry were not top of the class. She wasn’t a particularly patient person, and tended to get extremely deep into the weeds of whatever topic she was discussing, which—while at times fascinating—was not a particularly effective teaching style. After witnessing the group working together a few times, Draco had tentatively offered to help Harry and Ron during some of the free periods they shared while Hermione was in other classes, and had been somewhat surprised at the enthusiasm with which they had both accepted.

Having worked diligently with Crabbe and Goyle in prior years to make sure that they at least passed their exams, Draco was more than equipped to help the two Gryffindors. He was a bit surprised at how intelligent they both were when it came down to it; they had each secured a relatively impressive number of OWLs. They just had different learning processes than Granger.

Weasley was a great tactical thinker and a lover of good stories with an unexpected knack for remembering details, so when work was presented as puzzles to solve or narratives to absorb rather than lists of facts to memorize, his concentration improved drastically. Harry was much more of a reader than Draco would have expected—he admitted at one point to having read all of his textbooks cover to cover before starting at Hogwarts—but had trouble retaining information without hands on practice or visual aids and couldn’t concentrate on a lecture to save his life. Once Draco realized this, it was much easier to assist him in setting up systems to prepare himself for exams.

Helping the pair figure out how to study effectively had the added benefit of helping Draco cement the necessary knowledge in his own mind as he tried to decide how best to present it to the other two. It also had the surprising upside of pushing Ron Weasley from grudgingly accepting his presence to actually seeming to almost like him at times. If someone had told him three years ago that at age eighteen he would be steadily sliding toward a friendship with a Weasley, he would have hexed them. Now, he found himself unexpectedly gratified by the development.

–––––

Despite his new, tentative friendships and honor guard of Gryffindors (plus Luna), Draco was still not completely safe from harassment. The initial fervor had died down fairly quickly once the Prophet ran out of new information and speculation to print, but there were still a handful of students who would whisper slurs and abuse at him in the rare moments when he was alone. There were one or two more intense interactions, too, which left Draco deeply shaken.

William Walker, the boy that Harry and Ginny had confronted directly after the first article, was particularly persistent. Whenever Harry and his friends were out of earshot, Walker kept up a constant stream of muttered vitriol, telling Draco that he was unnatural and disgusting and that people like him shouldn’t be allowed to live in the dorms. “I bet you like it, don’t you, all those blokes changing in front of you; showering in front of you. You nauseate me. It was bad enough when you were just a Death Eater, but to be a homo, too? It makes me sick.”

The worst time, though, was when Walker and two of his friends managed to corner Draco in a bathroom between classes. Weasley had been walking with him, but when Draco had said that he needed to stop and that the other boy should go ahead, Ron had just shrugged and proceeded down the hall toward the Transfiguration classroom. It had been a miscalculation on Draco’s part, he’d realized, as he stood backed against a sink with three hate-filled gazes pinning him in place.

“Fucking faggot. Did you come in here to perv on blokes while they piss? Think you could sneak a peek without anyone noticing?”

Draco shook his head but remained silent, trying not to let his terror show. Nothing he said would help, he knew; keeping his mouth shut was his best option. Unfortunately, his reticence seemed to rile the boys up more.

“We’ve seen the way you look at Harry Potter, you know. The way you want him. What do you think he’d do if he found out? Do you think he’d protect you if he realized you wanted to get into his pants? Think his friends would let you sit with them if they knew your dirty secret?”

Draco blanched. “I don’t—” he started, but Walker cut him off.

“Liar. I think I should tell him,” he said, feigning concern. “He deserves to know, don’t you think? He wouldn’t spend so much time with you if he knew how close you were to begging him to let you suck his cock. Even the great Harry Potter has his limits, you know?”

“Please…” Draco whispered.

One of Walker’s friends laughed meanly. “Maybe we should just handle it ourselves,” he sneered. “He won’t be a threat to anyone if we hex his bollocks off.” Walker’s eyes glinted in response, and Draco could do nothing but freeze, wondering if he could slide his wand out of his sleeve before any of them could draw on him.

Luckily, at that moment, a group of Ravenclaws that Draco didn’t recognize came in, laughing about something that had apparently happened in the hall. Using the trio of Gryffindors’ momentary distraction to his advantage, Draco bolted for the door and nearly sprinted to class before they could stop him. He sat at an empty desk at the back of the room, trying to be quiet as he caught his breath and attempted to still his shaking hands. He didn’t venture out without a companion again.

–––––

It was early February when Lucius Malfoy’s trial finally took place. Draco did not attend. In the fall, he might have felt conflicted about his decision, but after his father’s humiliating and very public denouncement, Draco didn’t feel even the slightest bit of regret. By all accounts, the trial—despite the long delay leading up to it—was over almost before it started. Other Death Eaters had happily turned on Lucius in exchange for some semblance of leniency, detailing crimes that they had witnessed with alacrity. Survivors who had been tortured by his wand and had witnessed numerous other atrocities had laid them out before the Wizengamot with fierce determination. Lucius’s helplessness toward the end of the war when he had been without his wand and his lack of participation in the final battle made no difference; it took less than a day for a sentence of life in Azkaban to be returned.

Draco found that he felt nothing at the news, other than a pang of sympathy for his mother. Although she had also been a blood purist and had done nothing to dissuade his father’s allegiances when the Dark Lord had returned, she had seen their error almost as soon as Draco had. She had murdered no one, and had tortured only when forced. She, like Draco, had done what she could to keep her family alive. For her to be left alone at the end of it all as Draco began to slowly build a new life for himself seemed unfair. But it was what it was, and Draco only hoped that she would be able to do the same, eventually.

Unfortunately, the conviction reinvigorated people’s interest in Draco. The _Prophet_ had, in its typical sensationalist fashion, used its coverage to once again speculate both on Draco’s freedom from punishment and his expulsion from the Malfoy family. With his sexuality now in play, they had shamelessly conjectured that he might have bribed an authority or two with sexual favors. Once again, murmurs followed in his wake, although they were shut down much more quickly by the glares of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Luna was no good at glaring, but the penetrating gaze she would focus on people tended to send them scurrying away just as effectively.

It was two days after the conviction that Walker decided to strike, and this time, he didn’t bother to do so out of the public eye. Instead, during breakfast, he sauntered over to where Draco and Harry sat side by side at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by their usual group of friends plus Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, and scowled down at them.

“Why are you still playing guard dog to this scum, Potter?” he demanded loudly. “He’s a Death Eater and a queer; he doesn’t deserve your protection. He belongs in Azkaban, with his father.” He gave Draco a sneer. “Ex-father, I should say.”

The part of the hall near them went very quiet. Harry stilled, then turned in his seat to face the other boy, looking unimpressed. “The Wizengamot cleared him of all charges,” he said, not raising his voice, but still clearly enough to be heard. “I don’t know where you get off thinking you know better than they do. And as for his sexuality, I just fought a war that was started because a bunch of idiots on a power trip decided that they were better than another group of people based on something that they had no control over. Why the hell would you think I’d agree with you when you’re doing the exact same fucking thing? Now piss off, I’m trying to eat breakfast.”

He turned back to his plate, dismissing the other boy as completely as if he hadn’t even been there in the first place. Walker looked murderous. “He only got off because you vouched for him,” he hissed. “I bet you’re just as queer as him. Are you a faggot, Potter? Is that why you got him off? You wanted to fuck him?”

Harry’s hands clenched on the table before he turned back and looked Walker right in the eyes. “No, it’s not. But yes, I am. Not that I’d ever use that word for it, you fucking waste of space. My being gay is none of your damned business, and if you have a problem with it… actually, you know what? I don’t care. Get the fuck away from me.” Everything went silent. Draco’s mind ground to a halt. _What?_

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me? The so-called Savior is a shirtlifter?” Walker sneered around at the rest of the group, looking furious. “And you’re all fine with this, are you?”

“Why shouldn’t we be?” Luna asked him, sounding genuinely curious.

“Because it’s _disgusting!”_ Walker spit. “It’s unnatural!”

Hermione raised a skeptical eyebrow as she looked up at him, unimpressed. “Actually, more than five hundred different species display homosexual behaviors,” she stated calmly.

“Also,” Ginny chimed in, “remember that thing where I said I would hex you? Still stands. And I’m not even the scariest Weasley. Have you ever met my mum? Because one of my brothers is gay, and I really don’t think you’d want to see what she would be like if she heard you calling him unnatural. She’s very protective of her family. She killed Bellatrix Lestrange, did you know?” The grin she gave him was positively feral.

Throughout the conversation, Seamus and Dean had been conducting a silent conversation. Now, Seamus spoke up. “Harry and Draco aren’t the only gay students here, either. I’m rather fond of blokes myself. Dean, especially.” He slung an arm over his boyfriend’s shoulders.

There were murmurs coming from some of the other students now, and Walker was looking an odd mix of shocked and repulsed. He hadn’t managed to muster up an answer, however, before Minerva McGonagall tapped him on the shoulder.

“Mr. Walker,” she addressed him, her voice severe. “I am appalled to hear such invective being used by one of my students. Fifty points from Gryffindor, and two weeks of detention. If I hear of you, or anyone, behaving in such a manner again, the consequences will be dire indeed.”

Walker stared up at her with shock, but she merely leveled a disappointed gaze at him before turning on her heel and proceeding back toward the staff table.

Conversation resumed at a frantic pitch, but Draco heard none of it. What was Harry playing at, saying he was gay? Why would he do that? And why had they all been willing to put themselves forward for harassment like that? He knew that they were all getting on better now, but that didn’t mean that… he couldn’t even finish the thought. He stared down at his plate blankly, his appetite gone. He had to get out of here. He had to think.

“Hey,” Harry said, looking over at him in concern. “Are you okay?”

Draco couldn’t meet his eye. “I have to go,” he managed to get out. Before Harry could stop him, he slipped out of the bench, slung his bag over his shoulder, and rushed from the hall.

–––––

Once again, as he had over a month before, Draco hid. He didn’t go to the seventh floor corridor; he knew Harry could find him there easily, and he didn’t think he could talk to the other boy just yet. He needed time to sort through his thoughts. Instead, he headed down to the boathouse. There was a faint coating of snow and frost on the ground, and the air stung his lungs, forcing him to concentrate on his breathing as he made his way down the hill and around the lake.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

It was a Sunday, so thankfully, he didn’t need to worry about skipping classes in order to have some time to himself. His mind was an absolute whirlwind, trying to sort through what had just happened. Time and again, however, it came back to Harry. Harry, who he had been trying to push down his attraction to for who knew how long. Harry, who had so casually claimed to be gay in front of most of the Hogwarts student body and staff. Harry, who _had a girlfriend_ , for fuck’s sake! Although, now that he thought about it, Draco couldn’t remember seeing the pair being overly affectionate in public since they’d all returned to school. They were friendly and casually physical with each other, but no more so than either of them seemed to be with any of their friends.

And if Harry _was_ gay—and Draco was still fairly convinced that he couldn’t be—why hadn’t he said so? He’d announced it so nonchalantly at breakfast, as though it was just a simple fact that bore no importance. And yet, he’d been spending time with Draco almost every day for a month now, eating with him, studying with him, joking with him, confiding in him… they were _friends_ now. Or, at least, he’d thought they were. But if they were, and if it was true that Harry was gay, why hadn’t he wanted Draco to know? And again, if he wasn’t, why would he say that he was? Was it just another Gryffindor heroics thing?

Draco decided, as he had with so many things before, to set the issue aside for now. He was going in circles, and he was accomplishing nothing. He just needed to… sit. Calm down. He would do his Arithmancy homework, once again letting the comforting nature of numbers—the certainty that there were correct answers to be found, if one only tried hard enough—distract him. He just needed a break, that was all, and then he could go back as though nothing had changed. _It hasn’t_ , he told himself, pretending for his own sanity that he believed it.

He worked for hours, the respite of the Arithmancy work settling him enough that when he’d finished with it, he was able to move on to other subjects without letting his brain wander back into dangerous territory. Darkness fell more quickly than he would have expected, and he took a moment to peer out the windows to see that the sky was heavy with clouds and large flakes of snow were drifting softly toward the already-frosted ground. It was actually quite lovely, and also reassured him that it probably wasn’t as late as he had thought it might be. He conjured a small light to float nearby so that he could see his books and parchment clearly and let himself be reabsorbed in his work.

A few more hours had probably passed by the time he heard the crunching of footsteps in snow nearing the door of the boathouse. He grimaced. Only one person had the uncanny knack of being able to find him wherever he was hiding. Still, he supposed that Harry had at least given him a good chunk of time to himself before following; that at least showed a level of awareness of the fact that Draco was liable to need time to himself to process things.

The door creaked open. “Draco?” Harry asked hesitantly as he entered.

Draco looked up at him from his spot on the floor. “Hi,” he answered.

“Hey. You missed dinner again.”

“Oh. Did I?” Draco hadn’t noticed himself feeling hungry as he worked, but now that Harry had drawn attention to it, his stomach let out a growl. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I was just worried. I brought you a couple rolls. I hope that’s okay; there wasn’t much else portable today.”

“Thank you,” Draco said, reaching up and accepting the napkin full of rolls from Harry’s hands. He wasn’t wearing gloves, Draco noticed, and his skin was pink with cold.

“I’m… look, can I sit down?” Harry asked, reminding Draco of their first conversation this term—it felt like eons ago, now.

“I suppose so.”

Looking relieved that he hadn’t immediately been rebuffed, Harry removed his cloak and cast a drying charm at his boots. “So…” he said after he settled himself next to Draco.

“So,” Draco echoed.

“I’m sorry if I upset you earlier,” Harry said, sounding uncertain. “I didn’t mean to… I don’t know. I assumed it was about Walker at first, but Hermione seemed to think…” He trailed off.

Draco sighed, trying to gather his thoughts. “I’m used to Walker,” he said finally. Harry raised an eyebrow, and Draco rolled his eyes. “I mean obviously I’m not _used_ to him, I’m just… resigned, at this point.”

“Okay, so…”

“ _So,_ I don’t know!” Draco answered, unable to keep his frustration out of his voice. “I just don’t get why you would _say_ that! Especially in front of the whole school! It’s not even true! Or at least, I didn’t think it was.” He bit his lip. “Are you? Gay, I mean? I mean your friends didn’t look surprised that you said it, but...”

Harry gave him an unreadable look. “Yeah, I am. I didn’t really realize until this summer, but… yeah. It’s why Ginny and I never got back together.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He tried not to sound hurt, but he obviously didn’t succeed, as Harry’s face turned apologetic.

“I… well, I mean, at first it was because I didn’t want you to think it was about me. That I was helping you, I mean. I would have wanted to, regardless. But then later, I just… I didn’t want you to think that I was only friends with you because… well. You know?”

Draco tried to parse through the statement and came up short. “Because what? Because we’re both gay?” Harry looked uncomfortable and didn’t meet his eyes, and something clicked. “Because I might think you were _interested_ in me?!” Even as the words left his mouth, he laughed. “Harry, _really?_ I know we’re friends now, but I promise you, in no world would I ever be so stupid as to think you might be romantically interested in me.”

Harry looked an odd mix of relieved and disappointed. “Right, of course. That would be…” he stopped, and then went on, sounding genuinely confused. “Actually no, sorry, why do you think I would never be interested in you?”

“Really, Potter?”

“Harry,” Harry corrected automatically.

“No, it’s Potter when you’re being purposefully obtuse. Why do you think? Because I’m a former Death Eater who bullied you and your friends relentlessly for years. Because I fought on the wrong side of a war and most of the Wizarding world wishes I was rotting in Azkaban. Because, as you rightly pointed out, your life is already all over the papers; why in Merlin’s name would you be willing to turn the press against you, yet again, by associating with me? The fact that our friendship hasn’t made headlines yet is, frankly, nothing short of a miracle. It would be idiotic for you to get involved with me, even if you _were_ for some reason interested, which I can’t believe for a moment you ever would be.”

Harry was looking fondly exasperated by this point. “Draco…” He shook his head. “I don’t even know where to start. Wait, yes, I do. Since when do you, of all people, _not_ think I’m an idiot?”

Draco glared at him. “This is different.”

“Is it? I’m pretty much known for jumping into things with both feet and damn the consequences. I don’t really care what other people think. Unless they’re my friends, I guess, but even then Ron and Hermione will both tell you that when I think I’m right, I’m not going to let their opinions sway me. As for your past, do you really think I’d be your friend if that was a problem for me? How many nights have we spent talking about this? I know you’re sorry for what you did. I know you’re doing your best to make up for it. That’s enough for me.”

Draco made a frustrated noise. “Okay fine, you don’t care. I don’t know why you’re arguing this with me. You’re not interested in me anyway, so what does it matter?”

Harry looked down, fiddling with a quill that he must have, at some point when Draco wasn’t paying attention, stolen from the pile of his things scattered across the floor. “Maybe I am, though,” he said quietly. “Interested.”

For the second time that day, Draco’s mind went completely blank. _What?_ “What?” he heard himself say aloud.

“Look, it’s fine,” Harry rushed, obviously trying to stop Draco from saying anything more, “I don’t expect you to like me back or anything. It’s not a big deal. We can just pretend I never said anything, okay? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s completely okay, don’t worry, I promise not to—”

Harry was very obviously winding himself up into quite a panic, and that, more than anything, helped Draco snap out of his stupor. “Harry, no,” he cut him off, reaching out to stop his fidgeting hand. “I’m not uncomfortable.” Harry liked him. Harry _liked_ him. The thought was heady and incredible and more than he could ever have hoped for. And yet...

Harry stilled. “You’re not?”

“No. I’m…” Harry looked up at him, hesitant hope in his eyes. Draco bit his lip and then, carefully rearranging his hand where it sat atop Harry’s and holding his gaze, threaded their fingers together. Harry took an audible breath and squeezed Draco’s hand gently, as though assuring himself that it was really there. “I’m not upset,” Draco reiterated, “but…” he stroked his thumb over Harry’s trying to sort through his thoughts and feelings so that he could put them into an order that made sense, that wouldn’t ruin everything. “I’m interested in you, too,” he finally said, feeling himself blush slightly at the admission, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to do anything about it. Not right now.”

“Why—” Harry began to interrupt, but Draco stopped him.

“Please, Harry. I just… I’m not ready for the kind of publicity that would come with us getting involved. I know it’s cowardly, but everything’s been so awful already, and I just _can’t_ right now. It’s too much.” _Please,_ he thought to himself. _I’m not ready to lose you over this._ He gripped Harry’s fingers a bit harder, unwilling to let go until he was sure that Harry understood.

Harry’s eyes searched his for a moment before he slumped slightly, looking resigned, but at least not attempting to pull his hand from Draco’s. “Okay,” he said quietly. Then straightening back up and taking a deep breath, his voice regaining its usual confidence, “Okay. I can understand that.” He gave a smile, slightly bittersweet but still genuine. “I really like being friends with you. That can be enough. I don’t want to make anything harder for you.”

Draco relaxed. “Thank you. I really don’t want to lose your friendship. It means a lot to me.”

“It means a lot to me, too,” Harry responded. He leaned to his left slightly until his side was pressed gently against Draco’s. Draco allowed his head to tilt until it rested on Harry’s shoulder. They stayed like that, fingers still laced together, for a long time.

–––––

They slid easily back into their routine the next morning as though nothing had happened. Hermione gave them a calculating look but said nothing, for which Draco was grateful. He did give a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to her—as well as Ginny, Seamus, and Dean—for speaking up for him. Dean, especially. “I know that you were trying not to draw attention to yourself,” he told the other boy, “and it means a lot that you were willing to give that up for me.”

“It wasn’t just for you,” Dean answered. “I couldn’t just sit here and let that bastard talk like that. I’m tired of pretending. Other people are just going to have to deal.”

Draco gave a small smirk. “It was a little bit for me, though,” he said.

“I’ll deny that to my grave,” Dean responded, but he couldn’t quite bite back a smile.

It wasn’t until the next day that the news of Harry’s impromptu coming out hit the papers. Unsurprisingly, there were several pages dedicated to the story, with quotes from anonymous Hogwarts students expressing their shock and dismay. Unexpected, however, were the number of quotes of support—these ones bearing the names of the interviewees.

 _“‘I think it was really brave,’ said Colin Creevey, a sixth year Gryffindor student,”_ Ginny read aloud. _“A lot of people are pretty closeminded about gay people, and Harry pointed out to us all that being homophobic isn’t any different than being a blood purist, really. I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but he’s right.”_

Harry blushed and hid his face in his hands. “Stop, oh my god.”

Grinning, she ignored his pleas and continued reading with relish. _“Said Hufflepuff eighth year Lisa Turpin, ‘Harry’s done so much for us all already; he deserves to love whoever he wants to, don’t you think?’ When asked how she had taken the news, and whether she was upset at the loss of what might have been a very happy future together, ex-girlfriend Ginevra Weasley responded, ‘Why would I be upset? I care about Harry, and I want him to be happy. And if any of you vultures try to get in the way of that, you should know that his friends all have a_ lot _of creative ways to convince you to back off.’”_

“GINNY!” Hermione gasped, but Ron cackled.

“How did they even get to you to ask?” he asked delightedly.

“They owled,” she answered nonchalantly. “It got caught in the filters, of course, but McGonagall passed it along. I suspect she thought they deserved whatever they got.”

Harry was still red, but he looked amused despite his embarrassment. “I can’t decide if you’re the best or worst ex-girlfriend a bloke could ask for,” he said wryly.

“The best,” Ginny answered. “And don’t ever forget it.”

Because the student body had largely been present for Harry’s big announcement, the article didn’t create nearly the uproar that Draco’s outing and subsequent disowning had. It probably helped, he thought wryly, that Harry hadn’t been photographed in a compromising position—instead, the photo accompanying the article was one of the many taken during post-war press briefings, where Harry looked tired but determined. Still, the lack of shock didn’t deter people from teasing Harry relentlessly about the absurd conjecture regarding his love life that the article had been peppered with.

“Oliver Wood, eh?” Seamus asked in Charms, barely biting back his laughter.

Harry threw a crumpled bit of parchment at him, hissing “I was a third year when he graduated, you perv!”

“You have to admit he was pretty fit, though,” Draco whispered from beside Harry, earning himself a blush.

“Well, yeah, but that’s beside the point,” he grumbled.

“So, you and Hermione and Krum during the Triwizard Tournament?” Parvati said speculatively during Herbology the next day. “Guess that explains why you were such an awful date.” Harry gave her a halfhearted glare, but didn’t answer. Probably because he _had_ been an awful date, Draco thought. He remembered seeing Harry and Ron sulking at the side of the room while their partners went off in search of better company.

It wasn’t until the next week that Draco began to second guess his reasoning on Harry’s lack of denial about the Bulgarian seeker, however. Harry had received an owl at breakfast that he had immediately shoved into his bag without opening it, piquing Draco’s curiosity. Later in the day, as they were going over a particularly tricky Potions essay in the library, Draco caught sight of the now-open letter as Harry shuffled through a mess of detritus from his bag in search of a spare quill. He only saw it for long enough to recognize Viktor Krum’s signature at the bottom, however, before Harry quickly pushed it into a pile of other pieces of parchment and shoved the whole stack back into his bag. Pushing away a sudden flare of jealousy, Draco tried to put the incident out of his mind. With effort, he refocused on the different ways that fluxweed reacted to various other potions components and how those reactions changed depending on where the moon was in its cycle when the plant was harvested.

Much to Draco’s chagrin, it wasn’t the only letter, either. On more than one occasion over the following weeks, he noticed similar missives disappearing into Harry’s bag or caught him writing lengthy responses in his familiar messy handwriting (and Draco was absolutely not craning his neck to check who the letters were addressed to, he told himself). Could Harry have started a long distance flirtation with Krum?

Draco knew that Harry had admired the man—who hadn’t?—and they had certainly shared some intense experiences. And school would be over in a matter of months; it wasn’t so far-fetched to think that Harry might consider seeing someone from outside of the UK. He hadn’t said much to Draco about his plans for after graduation, other than that he had given up on the idea of being an Auror. “Honestly, I’ve done enough fighting to last me a lifetime,” he’d said when it had come up. For all Draco knew, Harry was planning to run away to Bulgaria at the first chance he got. Not that Draco could blame him; he was still intent on leaving the country himself.

The furor around Draco’s orientation had died down in the aftermath of Harry’s diatribe in the Great Hall, but it didn’t change his plans for the future. After all, he’d made the decision to leave long before he’d become an object of public scrutiny for his sexual exploits. Despite what Harry and his friends thought, Draco was still an ex-Death Eater, and he wasn’t naive enough to think that his subsequent change in family status would alter the public’s opinion on that. He had no desire to put himself through the rejection he would surely face if he applied to university programs or jobs near home. So, really, it shouldn’t matter to him where Harry planned to go once exams were over, no matter how much his heart clenched when he allowed himself to think about it.

On the subject of family, Draco had finally gotten up the courage to have that cup of tea with his mother in Hogsmeade. It had been painfully awkward at first, with the other patrons staring at them and neither of them really sure where to start. Eventually, though, they’d managed a civil (if not particularly comfortable) conversation about Draco’s studies and plans for the future. Narcissa had seemed sad that Draco planned to move so far away, but said nothing to dissuade him.

They’d talked around Lucius, instead focusing on the smaller details of Narcissa’s life—she planned to leave the manor and move to a small villa they kept in the south of France. It made sense, Draco supposed; she wasn’t much more popular in England than he was, these days, and it wasn’t as though they had any friends left here. She would be happier starting over somewhere else, he was sure.

When they’d finally gone to part ways, Narcissa had stopped him with a soft hand on his arm. “I’m proud of you, Draco,” she’d told him softly. “You have more strength than I’ve given you credit for.” He’d hugged her tightly at that, and she’d murmured into his ear, “I just want you to be happy, my love. No matter what form that may take.”

Unfortunately, when he tried to think about what would make him happy, his thoughts inevitably strayed back to messy black hair, shining green eyes, and a shy expression full of hope that Draco had dashed. Luckily, NEWTs were approaching quickly, and the late night heart-to-hearts with Harry that Draco had become accustomed to were superseded by practical spellwork and revision. Their meals were no longer full of small talk and teasing; instead, they were dedicated to scheduling practice sessions and divvying up subjects, each person choosing the areas where they excelled to study in more depth so that they could tutor the others. When Draco finally collapsed into his bed each night, therefore, his mind was as likely to be full of long litanies of historical events as it was to settle on his now-omnipresent crush on Harry Potter.

And oh, what a devastating crush it was. Harry’s confession of feelings had turned Draco’s world upside down, and although he had been the one to insist that they couldn’t start anything right now, he second guessed himself every day. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering what it would be like—to kiss him, to touch him, to _be_ with him and not worry about what anyone else thought. He’d been able to push the thoughts down, before, knowing that they were nothing more than unattainable fantasies. Now that he could _have_ Harry, if he were only brave enough, it was nearly impossible not to crave it. It was unbearable, and only the desperate need to ace his exams kept it from destroying him utterly.

He wasn’t even sure if Harry still felt the same way. Aside from his correspondence with Krum, he hadn’t shown a noticeable interest in anyone else, but nor had he indicated that anything had changed between himself and Draco. He was friendly, but not flirtatious. He touched Draco casually from time to time, but no more so than he did his other friends. He never brought their past discussion—or anything about romance or relationships, actually—up. Draco thought that he might have caught a lingering glance here or there, but Harry always looked away when he realized that Draco had noticed. In a word, it seemed that he respected Draco’s decision unequivocally. It was infuriating.

Still. At least there was studying. Endless, exhausting, panic-inducing studying. Almost none of the seventh or eighth year students returned home for the Easter holidays, desperate to focus on exam preparation. Draco didn’t know if it was because of the war, but their cohort seemed especially focused on obtaining as many NEWTs as possible to ensure that they had a full range of options open to them after graduation. Even Ron, who Draco knew had never been particularly results-focused, could be found in the library until all hours of the night.

“A lot of people want to be Aurors or Healers,” Hermione had explained one day when Draco had commented on it. The weather was warming, and the pair of them—along with Harry, Ron, and Neville Longbottom—were sprawled under a large tree, having decided to venture outdoors on the thin excuse that it would help in their Herbology revision. He supposed that her reasoning made sense; living through what they had, the appeal of tracking down any future Dark Lords or helping to heal people in the wake of so much death was easy to see.

“What do you plan to do?” he’d asked her curiously.

“I’m looking at university programs,” she told him. “I’m not convinced that any of the careers we can pursue straight out of school are for me. I’d like to explore what else might be out there. What about you?”

“The same, actually, although for different reasons,” Draco had confessed. “I doubt I’d have much luck finding fulfilling work here, all things considered, so I thought studying abroad for a few years might provide me with better options.” He saw Harry look up at that, giving him an unreadable look, but he ignored it in favor of continuing his conversation with Hermione.

“Ooh, where are you looking?” she asked, sounding genuinely interested.

“Well, there’s an experimental potions program at the Salem Witches’ Institute that I’m interested in,” he told her, “and a medicinal potions one at the Magical branch of the University of Melbourne in Australia.”

“Isn’t SWI a witches-only school?” Neville asked, looking up from the detailed diagram of a wiggentree and its root system that he was working on.

“No, they integrated in the 1970s,” Draco answered, and Neville nodded and went back to his drawing.

“I toured the University of Melbourne campus when I was in Australia to find my parents,” Hermione told him enthusiastically. “It was lovely!” This led to a discussion on the methods the Australian healers had used to help her reverse the complicated magic she had utilized to protect her parents during the war, and the conversation about potential futures was soon forgotten.

–––––

It felt like no time at all had passed, and yet, all of a sudden, May was nearing its end and exams were upon them. All thoughts of romance—or the lack thereof—were pushed from Draco’s mind as he worked his way through written exams (which went much more smoothly than he had expected) and practicals (through which he nervously sweated to the point where he dropped his wand twice during Charms—although he had to admit that it was as least less embarrassing than the Broken Wine Glass Incident from their OWLs).

As each exam passed, he had less and less to focus on, which left him with more and more time to worry about his feelings for Harry. He hadn’t noticed any more letters from Krum, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t continued—and even if they hadn’t, it didn’t mean anything, since Harry was just as caught up in exam preparation as the rest of them. The closer the end of the year crept, the more Draco felt himself begin to panic. Had he thrown away any chance he had with Harry? If they left school without him saying anything, would it be too late? He still had no idea what Harry’s post-graduation plans were. What if they didn’t see each other for years?

When he was down to only one exam—Transfiguration—remaining, he found that he had reached the end of his ability to push thoughts of Harry from his mind. After his third failed attempt to turn a peony into a piano (he kept ending up with bagpipes, for whatever reason), he decided that he needed to pull himself together and talk to Harry.

After dinner that night, he touched Harry on the arm lightly as everyone began to go their separate ways. “Could we talk tonight?” he asked, trying not to betray his nervousness.

Harry searched his eyes for a moment, but nodded. “Yeah, sure. Seventh floor?”

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “Is eight o’clock alright for you?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’m not going to get much more studying done tonight anyway. I think I’ve run out of space in my head,” Harry said wryly.

Draco smiled at him before giving an awkward goodbye and heading back to his dormitory.

–––––

He spent the next hour and a half pacing, wondering why he’d picked such a distant time to meet. It wasn’t as though he would be able to concentrate on anything else in the meantime. He ran through what he wanted to say a dozen times in his head before deciding that it was going to be embarrassing and awkward no matter how he approached the subject. Eventually, he went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water over his face in an attempt to snap himself out of his panic.

“Pull yourself together,” he berated his reflection.

“Now really, dear, you should be kinder to yourself,” the mirror tutted at him.

Finally, it was ten till eight, and he headed up toward their designated meeting space. The number of flights of stairs from the dungeons to the seventh floor had once been a bit daunting, but the number of times he’d made the journey between the beginning of his sixth year and now meant that he was well accustomed to the trip. When he arrived, almost exactly on time, Harry was already there, pacing restlessly. He startled when Draco greeted him.

“Hi. Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Harry answered, running a hand through his hair for what looked to be the dozenth or so time that evening.

Draco fidgeted for a moment. “Shall we sit?” he finally asked, gesturing at the stretch of floor they had shared so many times before.

“Yeah, okay.”

Once they had settled side by side, turned inward just slightly so that they could see each other more easily, Draco took a deep breath and then let it out in a rush. “There is no way for me to say this that doesn’t make me sound like a twelve-year-old girl,” he said ruefully, “so I’m just going to say it. Do…” he braced himself and made himself meet Harry’s eyes. “Do you still have feelings for me?”

Harry flushed and looked awkward, but nodded. “Yeah, I… yeah.”

At this, Draco felt the tension he had been carrying for days—weeks? Months, maybe—drain from his body. “You do?” he asked with a wide, relieved smile.

Obviously noting the change in tone, Harry relaxed as well. “Yeah. It’s gotten a bit worse, if we’re being honest.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Draco said in relief. When Harry raised an eyebrow he went on. “I don’t mean… I meant, for me as well. I can’t stop thinking about you.” He felt himself blushing but forced himself to go on. “I was afraid I’d missed my chance, because I was too afraid. But I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to hide who I am or who I want just because it makes other people uncomfortable or angry.”

Harry grinned, and Draco thought that his whole face looked alight. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Harry look happier. He turned further inward so that he was facing Draco completely, and Draco imitated him so that they sat cross-legged, knee to knee. “That’s good. That’s really, really good,” he said, and Draco couldn’t help but grin back at him. “So, are we… that is, do you want to…” He seemed unable to find the right words.

Draco reached forward tentatively, placing his palm face up on his knee, and Harry readily reached forward and took it. “I do, but…” Harry’s smile began to dim at the word, but Draco pushed onward. “I still plan to go study abroad, assuming my exams went as well as I think they did, and I don’t know if you’d want to start something knowing that I’ll probably be gone by the fall. I don’t even know what you’re planning to do after school ends; I’ve been too afraid to ask.”

Harry’s smile had returned. “Is that all that’s holding you back?” he asked, and Draco nodded. He squeezed Draco’s fingers comfortingly. “Then I want to.” Draco gave him a skeptical look, and he went on. “No, really! There are international Floo calls and portkeys, and also Muggle transport. I’ve never been on an airplane, but I’ve always wanted to. If this works—if _we_ work—then we’ll manage. We can figure it out as we go along.”

“Won’t travel and such conflict with whatever you’ll be doing, though?” Draco couldn’t help but ask, playing with Harry’s fingers.

“Honestly, I still don’t know what I’m going to be doing,” Harry confessed. “But I’m seriously considering trying for professional Quidditch. I’ve been writing with Viktor Krum about it, finding out a bit more about what it’s like, and I think I’d really like it. I mean, obviously I love to play, and it would also mean I could travel a lot for games and stuff. I’ve never really been anywhere but Surrey, London, and school. And Viktor saw me fly back in fourth year, and he said that with some practice he thinks I’d easily be good enough. And I’m going to be in the papers no matter what I do, so it’s not like I have to worry about the press too much.”

Draco could feel his jaw drop as he listened. “ _That’s_ why you were writing to him?” he asked when Harry had trailed to a stop.

“...Yes?” Harry said in confusion. “Why else would I be?”

“I thought—” Draco cut himself off and blushed, looking up at the ceiling.

“You thought what?” Harry asked, sounding intrigued now.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Draco muttered. “I thought you were _interested_ in him, okay?” He gave Harry a challenging look. Harry looked positively delighted.

“You were jealous?” he asked, gleeful.

“Shut up.”

“You were jealous!” Harry laughed and Draco groaned.

“Can we drop it, please?”

“In a bit. Let me gloat for a minute.” He grinned some more.

“Must you?” Draco sighed, put upon.

“Yes,” Harry answered. “I was good about not pursuing you for months; let me have this!”

“Fine.”

After a few more moments of Harry grinning like an idiot and Draco pouting at him, Harry finally settled enough to provide some genuine reassurance. “Seriously though, Draco, I’ve never been interested in Viktor. I respect him as a Quidditch player and a person, but that’s all. And anyway, I don’t even know if he’s into men; I never asked. It doesn’t matter one way or the other. Okay?”

Despite his embarrassment, Draco couldn’t help but feel relieved at this. “Okay, I believe you.”

“Good. So…” he looked at Draco hopefully, tugging at his fingers slightly. “Can I kiss you now? Because I’ve been wanting to for—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence, because Draco had surged forward on his knees and cut him off with his lips. Harry’s free hand came up in surprise and grasped onto Draco’s hip. Draco took the opportunity to let go of Harry’s fingers, opting instead to brace one hand on his shoulder while tangling the other into the messy hair that he’d been wanting to touch _forever_. Unfortunately, this move shifted his center of gravity more than he’d anticipated, and they toppled to the floor, Harry’s head hitting the stone with an audible _crack_ as Draco’s hand flew out to catch himself _._

“Ow,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his head resignedly.

“Shit, are you okay?”

“Fine,” Harry reassured him with a wry smile. “My head’s hard enough to take on a bit of rock.”

“You said it, not me,” Draco smirked before leaning back in.

What the kiss lacked in finesse, it made up for in feeling. Once they’d found an angle where their noses weren’t colliding awkwardly and Harry’s glasses weren’t poking Draco in the face, they settled into something that felt so right that Draco was annoyed that they hadn’t been doing this forever. He was positioned over Harry now, propped on one forearm while Harry’s hands found their way back to his hips. As their tongues slid against each other, the small part of his mind that could focus on anything but the places their bodies touched decided that this was probably the happiest he had ever been.

It was quite a few minutes later when they reluctantly parted. Draco rolled to the side so that he was lying on the floor next to Harry, leaning on his elbow. Harry turned to face him.

“So, we’re doing this, then?” he asked.

“Yes,” Draco answered, smiling yet again and feeling like he might never stop. “Yes, we are.”

“Good,” Harry responded, and leaned in to kiss him softly once more.

–––––

_Epilogue: one year later_

“Come in!” Draco called distractedly as a knock sounded at his door. He was frantically searching his flat ( _apartment,_ he corrected himself. He still wasn’t accustomed to the myriad of words that differed between American English and what he thought of as Proper English) for a notebook that he absolutely needed before his class tomorrow if he didn’t want to draw his professor’s ire. The elderly witch who taught his Poisons and Antidotes course was not one to accept excuses—or late assignments.

The door opened and a familiar voice came from behind him, sounding amused. “Wow. Did a niffler get loose in here?”

“Harry!” Draco cried, turning around and grinning at the face of his disheveled boyfriend, who stood in the doorway in ratty jeans and a horribly orange Chudley Cannons t-shirt, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. “What are you doing here? I thought you couldn’t come until next week!”

Harry stepped forward to envelop Draco in a hug, kissing him soundly before pulling back to answer with a grimace. “We lost against the Harpies, so we’re out of the final.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Draco commiserated, sliding one of his hands from where it had draped around Harry’s neck to run his fingers through the perpetually messy (but irresistibly soft) black hair. “Although I’m sure Ginny is thrilled.”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, she was insufferable. But still, it’s not so bad. Freed me up a week early, anyway. And after this season, I’m hoping I might get an offer from somewhere else. Oliver was making noise about me joining Puddlemere again.”

Draco kissed him again. “I still don’t know why you decided to go with the Cannons, out of everyone.”

“Figured it was best to start somewhere that I couldn’t make it any worse, just in case,” Harry grinned. “Besides, I owed it to Ron.”

Draco let out an exaggerated groan. “Oh god, no wonder you decided to flee the country; he and Ginny are going to be unbearable, aren’t they?”

Harry laughed. “Molly’s going to murder them at Sunday dinner. It would almost have been worth staying for. But I missed you.”

“Sap,” Draco accused, but he couldn’t help but smile as he pulled away from his boyfriend.

“So!” Harry asked, dropping his bag onto one of the few empty spaces on the floor and shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “What were you looking for so frantically when I came in?”

Draco sighed. “I can’t find my Poisons and Antidotes notebook, and it has all of my research for my final project in it. Professor Bishop will _not_ be understanding if I show up without it tomorrow.”

Harry nonchalantly let his wand drop from its holster and waved it, and the notebook came zooming out from under a pile of dirty laundry and into his hand. He held it out toward Draco with a smirk. “You know you’re a wizard, right?”

Draco ran his hands down his face and groaned before taking it from the other man’s hands. “Shut up. I’m so deep into this project, I’ve barely slept in weeks.”

“Is there anything else you absolutely have to get done tonight?” Harry asked.

“Well, I intended to get a start on—”

“ _Absolutely have to_ , Draco.”

He exhaled resignedly. “No, I suppose not.”

“Good,” Harry said, taking the notebook back and putting it on top of a pile of textbooks on Draco’s small kitchen table before wrapping the exhausted scholar in his arms once more. “Why don’t I take you out to that great pizza place for dinner, and then we can call it an early night, okay?”

“That sounds amazing,” Draco admitted, nuzzling into the warm skin of Harry’s neck, breathing in the comforting scent that had come to smell like home. Without thinking, he pressed a kiss to the soft expanse, feeling a rumbling hum of contentment from Harry and smiling before kissing him again, this time with more purpose, on the sensitive spot just below his ear.

“Or we could order in,” Harry breathed, his grip on Draco’s hips tightening, exactly as he’d known it would.

“Hmm, yes,” Draco agreed, biting the skin softly and drawing a soft hiss from the other man. “Let’s do that, instead.”

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥


End file.
